


The Night That Follows All Nights

by gardnerhill



Category: Wild Wild West (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, Public Blow Jobs, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 06:06:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4776434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim West and Artemus Gordon like dangerous work - and dangerous play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night That Follows All Nights

**Author's Note:**

> First appeared in the WWW zine GENTLEMEN NEVER TELL 9, published by Marian Kelly.

Artie tapped his wineglass against Jim's. "Another week, another $20."

 

Jim smiled – painfully, as one foe's punch had landed on his jaw during the climactic fight. "How many does this make?"

 

"After you've saved your country the first ten times or so, I suppose you lose count." Gordon savored the fine California red. "I'm sorry it took me so long to figure out the labyrinth puzzle – you got a little too close to that vat of molten iron."

 

Jim dismissed Artie's words with the wave of a hand surmounting a bandaged wrist. "Your head was bleeding; I figured your brain would be a little slower. Club, or bullet graze?"

 

Artie fingered the bandage behind his ear and winced a little. "They compromised – hit me on the back of the head with a gun butt."

 

Jim made a noise of sympathy. "That was one of your favorite wigs, wasn't it?"

 

"That blamed thing was _comfortable_ , blast it! Wigs are supposed to be hot and itchy, and that one was just like a warm woolen cap made by your mother. Too much blood – I had to leave it behind."

 

Jim raised his wineglass. "To your wig. It died for a good cause."

 

Artie followed suit. "May he rest in piece."

 

Their food arrived just then, and they set upon the victuals with the fervor of men whose day has not allowed for proper nourishment. They did not speak for a full fifteen minutes.

 

Artie gave a sigh after his first round of mindless devouring. "Their sirloin is prime, James my boy."

 

"As is their lamb." Jim smiled and pushed a bone fragment to the side with his fork. "I think."

 

"I know." Artie grinned at their indulgences. "It's practically a waste to spend good money on food after a day like this. Right now we could happily pronounce bran mash and raw turnips a first-rate bill of fare."

 

Jim reached over to cut off a bit of Artie's steak for his own perusal. "We did that after Professor Thanatos, didn't we?"

 

"Snowy night? Holed up in that livery stable in Hanged Man, Nebraska?" Artie toyed with his coffee spoon – gently, as his right little finger had gotten a bad burn from the electrified puzzle pieces.

 

"Yeah, that's the one. Mm, you're right about the sirloin."

 

"Then that was after Loveless, not Thanatos. We fled by water after Thanatos." Artie's finger twitched and his spoon tinkled to the floor.

 

West bobbed his head in his partner's direction, acknowledging Gordon's superior memory in such matters. "I always forget them after I kill them." He stretched out his legs under the table and sat back in his chair a little more.

 

Artie laid his napkin on the table and disappeared from view to retrieve his spoon. The tablecloth rustled once.

 

Jim turned his attention to his food once more. But he soon gave that up and focused solely on his wineglass, stroking it rather than drinking from it, and holding it firmly to hide the trembling in his fingers when another pair of hands laid themselves upon the flies of his trousers and began to undo the buttons.

 

It was only fair; Artie had, after all, overshot his calculated rescue time by a good minute and forty-two seconds and had nearly gotten Jim smelted.

 

Jim raised the wineglass for a sip. He used one knee gently to caress Artie's shoulder as his partner's warm clever hands dealt with his trousers and linen.

 

Their waiter came by. "Sir, your companion?" he asked solicitously just as Artie fished Jim's cock free of his clothes and bared it to the air beneath the table.

 

Jim smiled and cast his eyes in the direction of the gentlemen's room, and saw the waiter nod in understanding. His cock was stroked down hard by both of Artie's hands, one after the other, as if trying to strip off the velvety skin. Pain lanced down in a lightning bolt of pain along with the jolts of lust. Jim kept smiling at the waiter. He was an old hand at covering any sign of pain.

 

"Do either of you require anything more?" the waiter asked.

 

Both fists gripped the cock and moved it in a circle, a slow brutal grind. Grind...

 

"Coffee for both of us, please," Jim said, and cleared his throat. He smiled at the waiter and felt the hands pat his cock in approval after yanking it about so brutally. Good old Artie. Just enough pain to keep his focus.

 

"Yes sir," said the eager young man and retreated.

 

Jim's smile changed to something looking much more feral as hot humid breath eddied over his naked cock, waving hard just inches from discovery. He set down his glass again with an audible thump. The next second his cock was inundated with warm wet strength. Jim coughed hard to hide his little cry as mouth and tongue swathed and stroked him hard, around and up and down. Exultation filled him, flooded his cheeks, brightened his eyes. He loved Artie like the other half of his head and heart – but at such times the only thing ruling his brain was raw, brutal triumph. Artie certainly had no compunction about turning into a Bonaparte when it was Jim under the table delivering an apology.

 

The talented Mr. Gordon continued to show his partner exactly why he was fluent in so very many languages. Swirl and stroke, dive and curl – Jim might as well have ordered Artie to wash his genitals using only his tongue. Jim spread his legs even wider, gave a little push that canted his cock and balls forward, and raised his wine glass; both men filled their mouths at the same time. The smooth Burgundy could be swapped with bear piss at that point and Jim West wouldn't notice.

 

(A young woman dining with her fiancee turned to look for their own waiter and bore the full brunt of Jim's rosy-cheeked bright-eyed reaction to what was going on beneath the table. For the rest of her long life Abigail Thornton fixed that image in her mind when her husband held her close in bed, and Wilfred Thornton had a highly developed opinion of his boudoir prowess to the end of his days.)

 

Jim covered not only the telltale sounds he made, but the ones made by Artie. The aria he hummed hid the louder, wetter sucking sounds Artie couldn't conceal, and bit down on the whine of lust he tried to emit. Their line of work had made both very good at hiding signs of pain; these wicked apologies they paid each other trained them to hide signs of passion as well.

 

His body was surging toward the conclusion, his cock quivering and straining in its second home. The coffee would be here soon, the coffee would come, would come, would –

 

Jim convulsed, cried out as lightning hit the base of his spine – and pulled out his handkerchief to complete what seemed like a prodigious sneeze. "Terribly sorry," he whispered into the kerchief's folds to several shocked nearby diners, and coughed chastely into the cloth before sitting straight and composing himself once again. His hand holding the kerchief dropped to his lap, and Artie took it to put both of them back in order. He quivered with the aftershocks of the paroxysm; but his knee rose one more time to caress Artie's shoulder as the man gave him a last tender kiss, before stowing him safely behind the requisite number of garments.

 

Seconds later, Artie came back up with the missing spoon and a look on his face that suggested that he was very, very happy to find his spoon again. Jim casually looked toward their returning waiter with their coffees rather than into his lover's dancing brown eyes because it was much safer.

 

Or so he thought, until the eager young fellow asked if they'd like cream. Both of them had a bad coughing fit before Jim was able to let the man know that no, no thank you, there was no further need – no _need_ for cream at their table, thank you.

 

Things calmed down afterward. Jim and Artie savored their coffees. They did not look at each other much; their feet, however, had no compunction to keep to themselves.

 

"Can you walk?" Jim murmured into his empty cup.

 

"It's behaving for the nonce, James my boy," was Artie's own response to his cup.

 

"Good." Jim signaled for the check.

 

If Jim felt a moment of pain when he mounted Eli, still swollen and tender as he was, he did not let it show. Artie, not as stoic as his partner, winced a little as he settled on Nutmeg's back, though that could certainly be attributed to a too-full stomach, or a bit too much brandy afterward. The livery stable was not too far from the train yard, but both horses needed an evening walk, so they took the scenic route around the town. They rode close, close enough for quiet conversation.

 

"You're ready for me," Jim said softly to Eli's mane.

 

"This very moment, Jim," and there was nothing but steel in Artie's own equally-soft voice.

 

Jim tipped his hat to a lady walking past. "I should pull you across my lap right now. Send Nutmeg back to the train riderless, and make you ride me instead. You'd never touch Eli – it would be my hands on your thighs holding you down, my cock up your ass like a flagpole, my boots holding your feet to Eli's ribs. And nothing but your longcoat to hide it while I fucked you."

 

Perhaps it was the beginning of an old song Artie began, something with a coyote whine in it. His posture was perfect, his eyes straight ahead, hands at the saddle horn firmly holding the reins in front of anything that could be seen in the saddle.

 

It was dangerous, what they did. They understood this as well as every other peril they faced in their work, in their association with each other. They knew it was precisely because they worked and thrived amid such danger in their work that they sought danger in their love as well.

 

"I'd ride you around town the way we are now." Jim smiled at a small girl in a wagon with her family heading in the opposite direction. "You'd have to smile and tip your hat to the respectable folks we meet even while I fucked you right in front of them. You'd be so proud of your control. Until I clapped in my spurs and made Eli trot. Then you'd cry like an eaglet chick at what I was doing to you."

 

Artie cleared his throat. Or perhaps it was a growl.

 

Jim turned Eli onto a side street, Nutmeg pacing perfectly beside his companion. "It would be my fists on the reins, over your own. Hiding what your hands are doing, and locking my arms hard around your waist. Just before I dug in my heels for a gallop. And Eli would do all the work – galloping so hard all you could do was scream at me inside you, fucking you hard. Fucking you until you spent – white dripping down Eli's black neck –"

 

Now that really did sound like the cry of an eagle chick.

 

"Anyway," Jim said, in a somewhat louder voice, nodding to the three older women walking together, Bibles in hand, "that's what I'd like to do right now. Right here."

 

A long silence. "James." Artie's voice was hoarse. "You are a cruel man."

 

"And you, Artie," Jim said pleasantly, "are a monster. As you have so ably reminded me time and again, it takes a cruel man to handle a monster, and vice versa."

 

"It's," Artie paused and cleared his throat. "It's just as well we're inverts. No decent woman need put up with either of us."

 

"Thanks to the blessings of fate and divine Providence," Jim rejoined as sweetly as if joining the Bible ladies for their meeting, "neither of us need put up with decent women, either."

 

"Amen," Artie said huskily. "The Wanderer?"

 

For answer, Jim clapped in his spurs.

 

As two yelling madmen galloped down the street, the ordinary decent folks of the town tsk'ed and shook their heads, muttered imprecations against the men who had saved their lives and those of their children just that afternoon, and continued on their way to home or evening prayer services.


End file.
